Exodus
by Timballisto
Summary: Driven out of Emelan by a political coup, Sandry, Briar, Tris, and Daja attempt to start over in a new land where they hope they can live quiet lives. Unfortunately for Tortall, they were never very good at keeping a low profile. Emelan/Tortall Crossover
1. Chapter 1: Night of Torches

It would later be called the Night of Torches. Franzen had taken control of the country, slowly strangling all political power from his brother, Fenreigh. His supporters and soldiers had taken to the streets in the night, torching business and dragging prominent officials out of their homes and submitting them to the mercy of the mobs.

But all was quiet at Number 6 Cheeseman street.

Shouting soldiers burst into the home, slashing at delicately embroidered pillows and hacking at delicately tended plants that shivered, even in the becalmed air. The forge at the back of the property was looted, the coals scattered across the garden and the half finished spools of golden wire pocketed by looting hands. Upstairs, the four beds were hacked to pieces, feathers flying everywhere as the pillows that had stuffed the linens exploded.

The four mages were gone.

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><p>Niko ducked his head as booted feet stomped the street above him, wincing as the reverberations brought filth from the roof of the sewers down onto his head. He eyed his four companions, wishing ruefully that he'd had enough time to grab his own cloak- what he wouldn't give for a cowl right now.<p>

Daja cocked her head, looking up at the stone with a calm look on her face. "They've gone." She said, cocking her ear as the clanging of soldiers gear receded from her senses. She spoke aloud almost entirely for Niko's benefit.

"We can follow the sewers to the docks." Tris put in, her head slightly bowed. Niko winced in sympathy. Tris had sprouted almost an entire foot since their return to Emelan five years ago. She was a towering 6 foot now and the sloping sides of the tunnel left little comfort for anyone of that height. Chime whimpered quietly from her perch on the weather mages' shoulder.

"Are you certain?" Briar asked, pulling his cloak up tighter against the chill of the stones around him.

Tris's voice was droll. "After traipsing about the sewers when I was twelve I had many a nightmare about being trapped down here. I made it a priority to memorize my way about."

Despite their dire conditions, Briar was barely able to stifle a grin. "Only you, Coppercurls."

Sandry stayed silent, her eyes slightly out of focus as she stared at the opposite wall.

_Don't even think about it. _Daja warned through their link, shifting a little closer to her saati as Niko, Tris, and Briar plotted out their escape route. _You know we'd never let you go through with it, even if your cousin would let the rest of us escape with our lives._

_I know. _Sandry replied miserably. Her eyes were dull with guilt. _I know that Franzen can't afford to have us live. We're too powerful by far for him to have around, even if he was somehow able to bind us to his service._ She sighed, leaning into her foster-sisters comforting shoulder. _I still can't help but feel like if it wasn't for me, no one would be forced to leave their homes._

_That's silly. _Briar said, cutting into their conversation as the group began to follow Tris's lead, with Niko bringing up the rear to vanish any tracks left behind. _Without you, there would be no us._ He glanced back at his sisters confused face. _We'd probably have died in the earthquake, hm?_

_Probably. _Tris added, before taking a sharp left to a dead end. A rusty metal ladder was bolted to the wall and above them was the slatted grate of a storm drain, leading to the street above. Presumably the docks.

"Ladies first." Niko said courteously, his mustache twitching slightly despite the gravity of their situation.

Tris didn't smile, but her curtsey was exaggerating and mocking. She went up first, sending out her breezes to see if anyone was nearby before popping the grate out of its berth. "Coast is clear." She said, keeping low behind the boxes of cargo that conveniently kept her out of view.

Their joking was gone. Only grim faces remained that shone with resolve. It was life or death now. If they were caught it would mean a painful death deprived of magic and public execution for attempting to circumvent the new Duke of Emelan's rule.

Daja's hand tightened to a fist. She was not afraid of a pox-ridden, midden-eating parasite such as Fenreigh. If she had a second, even a brief moment of weakness, she'd have consumed him in fire hotter than any ever created in her force. Her lips tightened. She hoped he burned in _pijule fakol_, the place where those who didn't pay their debts spent the entirety of their afterlife.

"This place is crawling with guards." Briar muttered, casting his eyes over the bustle of men across the wooden planking. "How on earth are we to get away?"

Niko motioned to the far end of the docks where, to those with the sight, was visible a shimmer in the air. "Hidden, of course."

"It's not going to do any good if we can't get to it." Tris pointed out diplomatically. She adjusted her glasses as they slipped again; damn this head and her trice-damned sweat!

"I'm confident in you four's ability to wreak havoc." Niko said dryly, making for the manhole again.

"The four of us?" Sandry spoke up. "You aren't coming?"

Niko shook his head. "I have others to get to safety." He looked regretful.

"Lark and Rosethorn?" Briar asked, fear gripping in his chest at the thought of his foster-mother killed in her bed at the hands of soldiers.

"They're fine." Niko said. "I assure you, they were out of Emelan yesterday evening. They knew very well what the political climate was and how dangerous it'd be if they were found napping. I suppose they've taken Evvy and Comas away to a safe house."

"Glaki?" Tris asked sharply, her heart aching for her little girl. Worry had paralyzed her. Was this what a parent felt like?

"She's waiting for you." Niko said, jerking his head towards their hidden ship. Her gave all four of them one last long look, almost as if he were memorizing their faces- and disappeared down the railing into the sewers below.

The four were quiet for a moment before Briar spoke roughly. "I'll get the cover."

Sandry merely nodded, her face pinched in misery. It had sounded a lot like Niko never expected to see them again, as if he didn't think he'd make it past tonight alive.

"Let's go." Daja said quietly, shifting her hands on her staff. They all reached deep into their magic simultaneously, drawing on their well of power. Then, as one, they directed their magic toward the men that lounged along the docks.

Briar caused boards beneath their feet to crack, sending boots through once solid deck. Daja sent heat to metal- swords superheated in hands and men ripped their belts off in their hurry to get the cherry hot belt buckle away from their skin. Tris stirred the water beneath the quay, sending crashing waves to sweep soldiers into the scummy harbor water. Sandry smiled grimly; she undid all the leather work, all the weaving with a passion. There was no stitch left untouched, nor man left clothed.

It reminded Tris uncannily of Namorn.

In the confusion that followed it was only a matter of time before they could sneak onto the ship waiting for them, a deep water sloop that was easily guided by a small crew of four. The men running around in confusion could hardly hear the sound of snapping sails over their own panicked cries.


	2. Chapter 2: Doldrums

This will be in oneshot format. I'm simpl too lazy to write it all out like I'm doing with my other Tris-centric story. This is more widely based, focusing around all of the four, showing their thoughts ect. ect and not simply limited to one character. Yay.

It is a Tortall/Emelan crossover, in case you were wondering. I figure that if they follow the northern costline west, they'll past Capchen, and then they'll find themselves in the Great Inland Sea. In my mind, I'm just sticking the maps together, with Tortall on the left and Emelan on the right. It works for me and my crossover.

Anyway, Glaki/Tris bonding, yay!

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><p>Daja looked up in dismay at the slackened sails. They fluttered weakly, like great white birds with broken wings. The air was dead and it felt almost like a thick liquid; Daja could feel it settling on her neck and shoulders. The decks of the small ship thrummed with the heat of the sun, throbbing in time with her heartbeat and breath.<p>

"It's hot." Glaki said, her voice small as she sat in the pitiful shade the mast allowed. She'd doffed her little shift, wearing only a small breastband and loincloth. Sweat soaked her dark head of curly hair, plastering it to her head and her naturally bronzed shoulders were bronzed and peeling.

"Yes it is." Daja agreed, rolling her own shoulders. Her own attire mirrored Glaki's, with the exception of a pair of knee length, cotton, drawstring pants to protect her skin as she shimmied up and down the lines that tethered the mast.

Glaki squinted as she looked up into Daja's face, shielding her eyes with a small hand. "Is _Mater_ going to be alright?"

Briar spoke up from where he'd been staring down over the side. "She's still retching, if that's what you're asking." He peered over his shoulder. "Her fever hasn't broken yet- and the heat isn't helping any."

"She'll be alright, right?" Glaki asked, her eyes wide, dark, and afraid. Briar turned back to look out to sea, frowning as he did so. If he tried to speak with Tris through their link, all he received in return was a barrage of images splintered and distorted by fever and disorientation. Coppercurls as in a bad way.

And that was Very Bad. The sea in this part of the Endless was as flat as glass, with hardly a ripple to suggest their passing vessel. They were stuck in these becalmed waters unless Tris could get well enough to summon a strong headwind. Daja set her mouth in a grim line. She knew what happened to crews stuck in dead water. Madness, sickness, murder… none of the tales ended well, that's for sure.

"Right?" Glaki asked again, her voice squeaking slightly. She was panicked now, her breath coming in harshly as she tensed. She leapt to her feet, her feet pounding the ground as she dashed to the open hatch that led to the belly of the ship.

It was barely cooler below decks than above and it was dim. Moisture beaded on the chinks between boards and everything smelled of brine and damp. Glaki picked her way to the pallet set up in the stern of the hull. It was set on top of a few trunks, raising Tris above the unclean floor. Sandry sat by her side, applying clothes damp with seawater from the pail at the floor onto Tris's sweating forehead.

"How is she?" Glaki's voice is loud in the relative silence underneath the ship, echoing off of the sloping walls and overpowering the creaking of timber.

Sandry jumped, water slopping from the bucket into her shoes. She turned around, her surprise morphing into tired acceptance when she saw Glaki's suddenly timid face. She beckoned the ten-year old forward, placing a weary hand on Glaki's shoulder as they both looked down on the anguished face of their weather mage.

"She's hanging in there." Sandry said quietly, reaching out with her remaining hand to smooth her foster-sister's hair out of her face. Tris's eyebrow's contracted at the contact, but she was too caught up in the fever to respond in any other way.

"_Mater…" _Glaki muttered, taking Tris's pale, sweaty hand in her own. She turned to Sandry. "I can't lose her too." She whispered. "It's why I didn't want to go with Lark and Rosethorn. I know you're probably not going to be able to come back to Emelan and if I didn't come, I'd never be able to see _Mater_ again."

"What does that mean?" Glaki asked adding another cold towel to replace the one already dried on Tris's face. "_Mater_?"

Glaki fidgeted. "Mother." She said quietly. "It means mother."

Sandry blinked, then looked down on Tris's twisted face. Sweat was beading on her temples again, and Sandry absently wiped it away. _You better wake up, _Sandry thought._ You have someone who'd be very crushed if you never came back._

* * *

><p>Daja worried her lip as she stared out over the expanse of sea, towards the hazy line on the horizon. She knew by her bearings that they were thousands of leagues west of Capchen. They had passed out of the Pebbled Sea, into somewhat questionable waters. She'd certainly never traveled this far out of the main shipping lines- she had nothing but the charts thoughtfully provided by Niko on their journey.<p>

Speaking of which… she looked down at the incredibly detailed map in her hands. The currents, reefs, tides and seafaring information was all neatly outlines, as well as the major bodies of land. She could see where the western edge of Capchen ran up against the impregnable mountains some called the Roof of the World that ran north to curl around Namorn like the tail of some beast. They had past those sometime ago and were now going through the narrowest part of their journey; something the cartographer had penned the Maren Strait.

"Is that land?" Tris asked, clutching the rail as her knees wobbled. She wasn't seasick (was it even possible for a weather witch to be _sea_sick?) but whatever fever she'd contracted when she'd been wandering the streets of Summersea had eventually burned itself out. Tris finally had the strength to stand, and feed herself- but not much else. Glaki seemed perfectly happy doting on her _Mater _as it was.

"Yes." Daja answered, looking out again at the hazy line. "It's the coast of Maren and over there," she pointed to identical line opposite. "is Carthak."

"Traffic has picked up." Briar noted, staring out at a passing fishing vessel with a collapsible spyglass he'd insisted made him look rakish and handsome. He snapped it shut. "Pity that, I was getting to like the peace and quiet."

Sandry snorted from where she was repairing a sail that had begun to fray. The thick, heavy fabric was being stubborn and twisted her fingers sharply to get the threads to behave. "Briar, you can't stand not having other people around."

"He can't stand not having other women around." Tris corrected with a shaky smile on her face. She was still quite pale.

"At least not ones he's related to." Daja added dryly, smirking at the indignant look on her foster-brother's face.

"I resent that." He said snootily, ignoring Glaki's giggles.

"How long can our food and water last?" Daja turned to Tris, who had a more level head for figures than any of her siblings.

"We want to get as far west as possible, correct?" Tris asked, leaning over Daja's map. Briar followed suit, and Sandry contented herself with listening in. Glaki entertained herself at the rail.

Briar nodded. "Preferably."

"We have another three weeks of hardtack and salt beef." Tris calculated, ignoring Briar's slight noise of distaste. "But only about a week and a half of water, and it's not going to rain any time soon." She looked up at Daja. "How fast can this boat go?"

"Ship." Daja corrected a little testily. It was a _ship_, not a boat. "And about 8 knots, at full speed."

"Could we make it to Port Caynn?" Briar asked, pointing to the flowery name squashed beside a city written by a city designated with a star. Presumably the capital of the country it was inscribed within; Tortall. At his sibling's questioning look, he shrugged. "It looks like a port city- not many care to notice who comes and goes."

Tris look a careful look at the scale, and the distance. "It's about 1,200 miles to get into the Emerald Ocean, and another 400 to get to Corus." She pointed to the body of water that took up the far western half of the map. "If our top speed is 8 knots, we can make about 216 miles a day- and we only have 9 days, 10 tops, to get there."

"We have about a day of water left over." Sandry called from her spot in the shade. The sail was finished and folded neatly beside her.

"Well." Briar said. "We better get moving, shall we?"

* * *

><p>I'm going to use this as an excuse to write a shitload of romance. I usually can't fit this stuff into my normal stories because they're either 1) to young, or 2) stuck in the friendzone like me. Anyway, I'm going to integrate as realistic an amount of romance into this, as well as the awesomeness of Emelanese trying to integrate into Tortallan society.<p>

Here are my thoughts.

**Tris/Wolset**; I kinda like it. I feel like he's not shipped with anyone, and he needs some lovin'. I'm pretty sure he wasn't the one who died... -_-'l

**Daja/Kel**; If you read my other Tortal/Emelan crossover, you know that I kinda like this pairing. Pierce always made it pretty clear that Kel wasn't biased in any way against anyone who loved someone of the same gender. Yay for that Yamani upbringing.

**Briar/Lalasa**; I know. You're all thinking- Tim! But Lalaa is scared of dudes! I know, that's why I think it'll be fun to write. Briar'll have to show his soft side, for once.

**Sandry/Liam of Conte or Jasson II of Conte**; Either one, really, because they're pretty much OC's with canon names. I just need some help finding out their ages. I place Sandry at about 23-24 here, as are the rest of the Circle. I think I want someone close to her own age.

**Glaki/Tobe**; Okay, now don't freak out. These kids are 10 and 12. I'm not into that kind of crap. But it'd be adorable- best buddies growing up, then as they get older, say 17 and 15, BAM! Instant adorableness and general tomfoolery. I have no doubt that Glaki will grow up to look like one of the those Thracian *cough*Mediterranean*cough* girls that are so hot.

Those are my thoughts. Review me if you have any ideas or suggestions for continuing this story, or any snapshots you'd like me to write. This is also a Tortallan story too, so if there are any pairings or oneshot ideas that you have, let me know. I'll definitely think about it and get back to you.

Adios,

Tim


	3. Chapter 3: Working Class

The ship made it into Port Caynn about a day before their water barrel went dry. As they docked at the bustling quay, Sandry looked over the railing towards the urban sprawl that steadily climbed upwards from sea level. The city was bright and colorful, painted colors of pink, green, and bright blue. Sandry grinned. It made the place seem cleaner and friendlier. It almost reminded her of Summersea. Back a ways, perhaps only a couple miles away, Sandry could catch the barest glimpse of another cities rooftops, settled on a hill set back from the coast.

"Sandry!"

Sandry turned. Daja was calling, gesturing for the thread mage to join them in speaking with a rather official looking man who'd been the first up the gangplank when it'd been lowered. He was dressed in livery, bearing the crest of what Sandry supposed was the Crown.

"-want to sell it." Briar said to the bored looking official. The man merely scribbled something in his log, looking about the masts and ship with appraising eyes.

"Hm, no more than 1,000 gold nobles." He said, sniffing hautily. His quill moved, twitching comically as he continued to survey the vessel. "And as for the cannon-" he broke off suddenly, looking about.

"Problem?" Daja aske, an eyebrow raised.

"Where are your canons!" the man exclaimed, peering behind the five as if they would magically appear.

Briar shrugged. "We didn't need any." His smile was decidedly wicked as he tapped the side of his nose. "Mages, you know."

Glaki giggle was muffled in Tris's skirts as the official's face turned a pleasing shade of puce, than ghostly pale. "R-right. Quite sorry. I'll draw up your papers for 2,000 gold nobles, then." He scurried off as fast as his legs would take him.

"Did you see him jump?" Briar laughed. Daja and Tris looked on amused while Sandry seemed indignant.

"Briar Moss!" she chastised. "That was incredibly rude!"

"It was funny." He defended, looking around for help. "Ah, Glaki! You thought it was funny, right?"

Glaki merely shook her head, refusing to get involved.

"You don't get to use Glaki as a shield, Briar." Tris admonished as she pushed her glasses higher on her nose. "My sense of morals won't allow you to."

"I can fix that." Briar said, half seriously as he fended off a swat from Sandry. "Those pesky inhibitions can be done away with given the proper application of alcohol and tomfoolery."

"Briar!" Daja said semi-sharply. Her eyes slid to the youngest of their group. Glaki had stood up straighter, very interested in the details of this 'tomfoolery'.

"You never let me have any fun." Was all Briar could say as the port official came trotting back up the gangplank, and negotiations began again.

* * *

><p>For all their optimism about starting over in Port Caynn, they found it incredibly hard to find work. Thousands of men had returned home in droves after the victory over the Scanrans to the north. Competition for the paltry few jobs left was fierce, and in some cases almost deadly.<p>

"We need to move." Briar said finally, about two weeks after they had first arrived in Tortall. They were settled around the small table in their room, just having finished their evening meal. Sunset flickered through their shuttered windows and made them all feel comfortably drowsy.

"Why? Glaki asked, sleepily blinking her eyes as she struggled to keep her chin out of her empty stew bowl.

"It's been two weeks, and we haven't found anyone to take any of us on, mages or no." Briar said. He laced his fingers across his belly and leaned back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling. "I heard a bleater muttering to his friend about the capital. He claimed that his sister and her husband had found work there right off and that if he had the coin, he'd join them in a heartbeat."

"That's all you're going off of?" Tris asked, her tone acidic. "Some bluster you heard an unemployed fool mutter to his equally stupid friend?"

Truly, the lack of work was getting to Tris most of all. After her return from Lightsbridge, she'd enjoyed a prosperous business selling charms and amulets to the general populace of Summersea. She was particularly noted for her expertise in tying winds into knots for the captains of the Duke's navy that wasn't matched even by the expert _mimanders_ that the Traders employed. It had taken skill, dedication, and a lot of investment for Tris to create a reputation for fair business and excellence. To have that taken away from her was almost excruciating, considering that the odds of her doing so again were long. At least then she'd had contacts cultivated over her time at Winding Circle and Lightsbridge. Here, in this foreign land, she knew no one- in fact, she didn't even know if their licenses would count this far west.

Briar fixed her with an irritated look, his own frustration rising up as he spoke. "Well, it's better than sitting around this dump, moaning like bag-!"

"Yeah?" Tris stood, trembling in her effort to contain her rage. Lightning crackles softly in the braids that framed her face, glinting off her glasses.

"Tri! Briar!" Daja's voice, usually not raised above it's calm murmur, cracked sharply. Both mages turned to see Daja glaring at both of them, with Sandry and Glaki looking on. "Be quiet." Daja said in a firm tone that booked no argument. "We don't need fighting, especially not where anyone could hear us."

Daja declined to mention their unique connection, feeling that Glaki deserved to know what was going on in their plans. It didn't pay to keep children out of their own futures; something she'd learned from the Circle's various misadventures with their foster-parents.

Brair and Tris traded heated looks before slowly lowering to their seats.

"Continue." Sandry said quietly. Her disappointed face was enough to guilt Briar into swallowing his pride.

"We could probably get a few jobs at the palace." He said sullenly. "It would pay to be close to the seat of politics. It's unlikely that Franzen could make a move with us two months travel away, but it's possible. I'd rather be the first to know if the Duchy of Emelan begins to muck about in our business, that's all." He settled back in a huff, sulking as Sandry and Daja turned to talk about it amongst themselves. They'd apparently decided that Tris and Briar were being too childish to be part of the discussion.

"We'll keep looking for another week." Daja announced after a few minutes of intense whispering. "If no one gets anything decent by then, we're going to Corus."

Tris and Briar said nothing, but merely scowled at each other.


	4. Chapter 4: Class Warfare

Glaki barely knew what was going on when Niko had woke her up in the middle of the night to escape to safety. All she had known was that she'd probably have never seen Tri s again if she'd gone with the others and it'd taken only a split second from there to decide the course of the rest of her life.

She'd much rather be with _mater._

Still, as she looked out from her shadowy corner in the palace courtyard she had snuck into, she had a thought that maybe Emelan would have been less… strange. In front of her, rows of boys about her age swung at each other and raised forearms to block in regimented moves. Teachers paced the line, barking orders and keeping time with their voices, the word "pages" being the rank at which they were addressed Whatever that meant.

They had such strange ways, Glaki thought, peering curiously at the awkward, tense moves that Briar had drilled her to avoid at all costs. She suddenly missed her weekly sessions with the older man. They four were all too busy now, traying to find work and a school good enough and close enough to satisfy her four caretakers. The ten year old felt a sudden, sharp stab of sadness; when was the last time she'd seen her entire family together? They'd only been in town a week, after all...

"Oi, you there!" Glaki looked up with with wide eyes into the bland, tanned face of an older man. He gestured impatiently, and Glaki stepped forward, her Tharian sandals scuffing in the dust.

"Yes, sir?" she said politely, stepping forward.

"Are you the new haMinch girl?" he demanded, sharp eyes looking her up and down.

"No sir-" Glaki attempted but was unable to speak up because the trainer roughly cut across her.

"Darryl of Silverpike, please step forward!" The tallest boy stepped forward, grinning at Glaki in a way that wasn't entirely friendly.

"Please demonstrate that moves you learned today." The instructor sad, his face hard as he stared Glaki down, as if daring her to disobey him.

Next thing she knew, Darryl was lunging at her in a textbook, if clumsy, hold that would have her pinned to the ground and straining for leverage in moments. So she did what Briar taught her; fight dirty. She let his momentum carry him forward, snaking in a hard strike to the ribs that left him gasping for breath and red in the face. Before he could catch his breath, Glaki was on him, snatching up his wrist and bending it against the joint to put him on his knees, whimpering in pain.

The practice yard was quiet for a few seconds before a huffing and puffing blonde haired girl showed in one of the entrances to the yard, waving a slip of paper. "Sorry I'm late… Master Salmalin kept me… back."

The hand-to-hand combat instructors' eyes widened and he snapped his head back to look at the girl who had just reduced one of his best wrestlers to whimpering jelly- only to find her long gone into the curling and winding streets of Corus.


	5. Chapter 5: Night Flying

_Hey guys, new chapter up yay! I have another chapter already edited and ready to post but I'm gonna wait until Monday. Kay, hope you enjoy._

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><p>Chime chirruped sadly from her vantage point high in the eaves. Below, her humans spoke in whispers, not even glancing up at her. Not that she was much to look at, nowadays. Chime let out an annoyed little hiss as she tried, for the umpteenth time, to scrape off the illusion masking her true form.<p>

"Leave it alone, Chime." Mistress' tone booked no argument- Chime sulkily settled back into her illusion even though she longed to disobey. Being seen as a _crow_ was too far beneath her dignity.

Huffing, the glass dragon went to the open window and took off into the noon sunshine. She wheeled around the open window for a minute, one ear cocked to see if Mistress or any of her hatch-mates would call her back in. When she heard nothing, Chime took to the skies. It had been far too long since she'd had a decent flight, confined as she'd been inside the shabby human dwelling for the past two moons.

Far too long since she'd had a decent meal as well.

Gold shavings from the Fire Woman's palm were too full of foreign magic for her to really digest them properly and for some reason neither the Green One nor the Thread Lady had brought her real food for a long time. Chime's belly churned and she naturally began scanning the winding city streets for the glitter and flash of her favorite meals.

There!

Chime darted in low, snagging a small nugget of silver off of a jeweler's cart display. Ignoring the yells of the shopkeeper and the laughter of those who'd spotted her little stunt, Chime quickly gobbled down the little piece. She let out a dainty little burp as the lightning in her blood naturally broke down and destroyed the protective anti-theft spells that had layered her meal. Delicious.

For the rest of the afternoon, she hunted for whatever scraps she could get her claws on, which was pitifully little. By the time dusk rolled around, she'd only managed to eat two little bits of gold and a single pearl which, in her opinion, was not enough to sustain her. It was a far sight better than the copper and tin she'd been fed by Mistress lately. Not that she was ungrateful, Chime preened nervously, almost nervously. She knew that Mistress protected her from others gifted the silver fire that curled around their hearts but a spoiled little dragon could only take so much before she _had_ to eat some real food.

Chime alighted on a nearby gable and looked down at the roiling human crowd with dismay. With the dusk, the smiths, jewelers, merchants, and anyone who might have had something for Chime to eat were packing up. Her belly gave another complaint, reminding her that she hadn't eaten nearly enough for her to be considered full. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the setting sun casting a rosy glow on the familiar stone of a large human dwelling. She cocked her head at the far away Palace; hadn't the man Mistress called Duke lived in such a place? Chime licked her chops in remembrance of the feasts the large human male had brought for her every time he visited his kin the Thread Lady. Thoughts of the wealth of food potentially hidden away from her, hoarded by _humans_, made Chime's beady glass eyes narrow before she leapt off the roof and winged away into the rapidly descending night.

* * *

><p>It was full night by the time Daine managed to finish her duties at the stables and excuse herself to bed. She was too tired to hike the innumerable palace stairs to her and Numair's rooms and instead shifted into a small starling and flew to their high window.<p>

"Gods, Numair," Daine groaned as her feet touched down in their living room. "I hope Sarra is as tired as I am, else I might beg you to spell her asleep."

She blinked, looking around the empty room with a raised eyebrow. Daine knew that at this time of night, nothing short of a national emergency could keep Numair from his comfortable overstuffed chair in the corner of the den.

"Numair?" Daine called, prowling through their rooms, looking for her missing husband. She poked her head into the darkened nursery and noted the sleeping form of her daughter with some relief before softly shutting the door behind her. At least he had managed to get her to bed, whatever else he was doing now.

Eventually, she found him. He was of course, in his workroom. She could sense his power just behind the door, flaring as he tried to puzzle out some magical object. Her brief flare of worry instantly dissipated. Numair, as he was wont to do, had simply become caught up in some experiment or another. She knew she shouldn't bother him when he was working (he offered the same courtesy to _her, _after all) but sometimes Numair would forget that he had to eat.

Daine knocked on the thick wooden door softly. "Numair? Can I come in?" In answer, the door unlocked. Pushing it open, Daine peeked her head in. "I was just wondering if you'd eaten- by the Goddess!"

Numair and Kitten looked innocently from where they were seated at his worktable, as if there was nothing strange about feeding bits of precious gems to - Abandoning the doorway, Daine picked her way through Numair's clutter until she reached the duo. "Is that a dragon? Made from _glass_?"

"It appears so, yes." Numair said, stroking the creature from the top of her head down the length of her serpentine neck. The little dragon hissed in pleasure, arching into the mage's touch. "Though she's not a real dragon, at least, not like Kitten here." He gave the flesh and blood reptile a reassuring little pat.

"Are you sure it's safe to touch?" Daine asked, giving the glass dragon a skeptical look.

"Safe enough, as long as you don't insult her." Numair said cheerfully.

"Her?" Daine said with raised brows. It was usually her that gave sexless magical objects genders, not her precise husband.

Numair shrugged and gave her a crooked smile. "She's much too vain to be male."

Daine snorted, reaching out with a hesitant hand to give the dragon a scratch behind the clear ridges on her head. "So, what is she? An Immortal maybe?" Daine doubted it. The little dragon's screeches and croons didn't translate to speech even when she reached out with her magic, which lent the Wild Mage to believe that the glass dragon was mage made.

"Perhaps. I can definitely sense a human hand- maybe some sort of magical construct." The black robe sat back in his chair, yawning a little as he stretched. "Well, it's definitely not any sort of magic I recognize." He said, chuckling a little at Daine's look of surprise. "I don't know everything, magelet."

"Near enough." Daine grinned. "I'm more surprised to hear you admit it."

"_Anyway_," Numair said, giving his wife a mock glare. "I never specialized in the type of magic needed to make this kind of magical creature. There are entire departments in magical universities dedicated to this kind of thing- and even then, I don't think they could've created our little friend here."

"What're you saying then?" Daine asked. "She was made by accident?"

"Most likely." Numair said. He pointed to the glass, which shifted and moved like real skin. "I can see remnants of household charms, good-luck spells, safety wards, all run of the mill magic that people use day to day. However," he squinted, feeding another sprinkle of gold dust to the little dragon to distract her. "what's really fascinating is that she seems to have actual lightning running through her veins."

"So you're saying some sort of _lightning_ mage is running around doing workings without so much as a protective circle to keep out scraps?"

"Out here, mages that have a Gift attuned to the making or unmaking of things are rare." Numair said. "The captains of the great merchant marines that go beyond the Roof of the World say that, in the East, mages who work their power through their hands can do things that mages restricted to spells and enchantments could never even dream of."

"Do you think maybe someone's got their hands on one of these special mages?" Daine asked heavily. The last thing Tortall needed was another war right on the heels of the last one; she didn't think she could stand another few years of flying around and spying on the enemy for weeks at a time without rest. She had little Sarra to think about now too.

"Hopefully not." Numair said, his mind straying in the same direction as her own. "We have our hands full with the Immortals as it is- you know how they've been recently." The Stormwing population in particular had become almost unmanageable- the steady source of food from the Scanran War had caused them to breed. "We'll both need to keep our eyes open, but there's not much we can do about it. There's hope that whoever she belongs to is keeping a low profile- she had a rather layered illusion hiding her true appearance."

With a wave of his hand, the little glass dragon shimmered into a crow, like one of the thousands that flew above the city of Corus. She let out a little caw and flew to the window, ruffling imaginary feathers. With one last haughty look backwards, the creature dropped out of sight out into the dark.

"She didn't like that." Numair noted with some amusement.

Kitten let out a forlorn little whistle. Daine looked down, smiling a little as the little dragon turned a sad shade of blue. "It's alright Kitten. Knowing Numair, he's probably put a tracking spell on your little friend." She looked to Numair for confirmation. At his nod, she looked down at Kitten again. "See? You'll see your friend again."

"Probably sooner than you think." Numair agreed, his eyes tracking the small black speck out the window until it totally disappeared from his sight.


	6. Chapter 6: Slow to Burn

Daja's about had it up to here with these Tortallans.

The journeymen smiths around her sneered and whispered behind their hands and tried to disguise their snickers behind the clang of her hammer on metal. While the workshop was run by a man who knew skill when he saw it (he claimed to have known the second she'd walked in), none of the workers under his employ had the same ideas.

Her very presence was offensive, she supposed.

They got back at her in the usual ways. Dropped tongs, casual bumps when they walked past her workstation, the apprentices deliberately bringing her the wrong tools- Daja rolled her eyes and tried to control her growing temper.

The last straw was when one of the bolder men nonchalantly dropped her gloves into the glowing coals of her fire. The leather curled and cracked in the heat, crumpling in on itself. Daja just stared, unmoving. She hadn't needed them- they were for appearances sake, but...

Lark had made them.

Around her, the men burst into guffaws, slapping each other on the back and hooting. The one who'd slipped the gloves into the fire smirked and leaned into her space. He was huge, with a barrel chest that leant itself well to smithwork. His face made her want to punch it.

"Are you gonna cry, girlie?"

Instead, the Daja's eyes narrowed with rage. She practically snarled in his face, groping in the coals for the iron strap she'd put in the heat to soften. The metal whistled in her mind as her bare hand wrapped around it and lifted it, cherry-red, from the fire. She brought it to bear, it's cherry-red tip inches from the arrogant smith's nose. "I don't know, are you?"

She noticed he looked less like a bastard and more like he was going to be sick.

Daja looked around, glaring at each of the terrified looking men in the eyes. Then she turned her back on them, and brought her hammer down on her anvil, returning to work.

If the sparks flew a little farther than usual, what of it?


	7. Chapter 7: Threads

Finally we hear about what's going on with Sandry all this time. Naturally, Sandry and co. can't afford to start their own shop up or anything, especially when they are all just starting new jobs or out of work so she needs to hook herself up with some people who are in a position to pay.

Enter Lalasa and Tian, ladies and gentleman.

Yup. Yay :D

Oh, and please disregard my earlier assurances of a BriarxLalasa romance. I've been informed by many an indignant fan that Lalasa and Tian are 'totes together fosho' so I'm just gonna go with that. Don't expect any big love scenes between them- I picture them mostly as heterosexual life partners, so you're probably going to get stuff more in that vein.

Anyway, on with the chapter. Don't own anything, yadda yadda yadda.

Enjoi!

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><p>"Good morning Tian." Lalasa said, nodding to the other woman as she entered the shop. Dawn was barely breaking over the hills and the city was barely beginning to wake, still groggy with the pale blue tinge of early morning.<p>

Tian looked up from the account books, her eyes still droopy with sleep. She grunted, which Lalasa correctly interpreted as a greeting. Despite being a serving maid and waking up at the crack of dawn almost her entire life, Tian had never really taken to mornings the same way she had.

More's the pity, because it was Lalasa's favorite time of day, what with the streets of Corus being so quiet.

She liked the quiet.

Lalasa made her way past the front counter and parlor where she received noble customers into the workroom. The room itself was quite large, but it seemed smaller because of the long worktables and large material cupboards. Comfortable chairs and stools for her staff of twelve were all pushed into their designated workspaces- Lalasa narrowed her eyes at one chair that had been carelessly left jutting out into the aisle.

She'd have to talk about that with Cera. Again.

Rolling her eyes and muttering under her breath about lazy seamstresses, Lalasa pulled her jingling ring of keys out from her skirt pocket. The storeroom was set in the far wall of the workroom, and she had the only key- it paid to be frugal about who she let access the expensive fabrics when it was so easy for someone to carelessly leave it unlocked or make away with a yard or two of silk.

Tian says she's too paranoid- Lalasa disagrees.

She's humming to herself when she steps inside the cool, dry storeroom. She'd made sure to get the right spells on the walls to keep out mold and mildew- things she knew could leave her wallowing in debt if they destroyed some of her more expensive materials. The scent of the runes written on the walls in perfumed oil mixed with the natural odor of cloth and left her feeling heady and calm. Lalasa ran a hand over the nearest bolt of cloth; Karthaki linen, if she wasn't mistaken.

Or...not?

Lalasa frowned and lifted the material from its slot. It wasn't linen at all- in fact, it was... wool?

There was no way she could have mistaken wool for linen. There was no way to spin and weave wool that fine. None. And yet... here it was, resting in her hands.

Where had this come from?

"Tian?" she called up front.

"Yeah?" Tian's voice was gruff.

"Did you talk to our supplier recently?"

Tian appeared in the doorway, still looking a little disheveled. "Hm? No."

"Where did this come from, then, if not from them? It must've cost a fortune!" Lalasa brought the cloth into the light. It was undyed, but was still one of the softest things Lalasa had ever touched. Tiny stitches had been embroidered into the cloth, showing the delicate petals of a sunflower in red and oranges. When the steady light from the skylights cut into the ceiling hit it, the fabric seemed to glow with color. It was marvelous- if only Tian could appreciate it at this early hour.

"Oh that." Tian yawned. "I bought that off a woman on Market Street- she couldn't afford a stall so I got it for cheap."

Lalasa frowned. Corus was infamous for the cheapskates who roamed Market Street, offering glittering trash to ignorant visitors for exorbitant prices. Most of the city folk wouldn't buy anything the costed more than a few coppers from someone who didn't have the wherewithal to rent a stall every month.

But this? Stuff this fine would go for a few silvers a yard, which wasn't something a street peddler would've been able to afford. Curious.

"Do you know where she got it?" There was always competition to see who could hit off another court fashion among the tailors that served the crown and new fabrics were a large part of that. New fashions meant lots of new commissions, which meant more money.

"She said she wove it herself." Tian said. The look on her face clearly said she didn't believe that. "But a woman who could weave that well wouldn't be selling things on the street corner, so I haggled her down to fifteen coppers for the lot of it. She was grateful enough."

"Does she often sell on that corner?"

Tian frowned. "What's with all the questions?"

Lalasa shrugged, but her mind was already whirring. "This is brilliant, Tian! I know a few ladies at court who would kill for a summer gown of embroideredsunflowers."

They'd have to find this woman, and fast, before one of her competitors snatched her up. Whether or not this mystery woman was the one doing the actual work or she just stole it, she was the only lead they could follow to whomever had such prodigal talents.

"What did you say her name was?"


	8. Chapter 8: Respect

Introducing Liam of Conte everybody. Okay, so all that'spublished about him on is that he's a Knight of Tortall and third in line to the throne. He's better at weaponry than Jasson, his younger brother. So I took some liberties. They also never say how old Liam is in comparison to Roald but I'll put a minimum six year difference between them because he's never mentioned at all during Roald's time as a page or squire.

But I'ma have fun with his character fo' sho'

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><p>Liam of Conte is not his brother. He is not his sister, nor his father or mother. He is a Knight of Tortall and he hates it; he hates that the world makes the most sense when he's swinging a blade and <em>killing<em> people. So he avoids it. The courtiers whisper behind his back and Father's face is disappointed.

_(why would he be disappointed Liam loves peace and doesn't like the slick feeling of blood isn't that what Jonathan wanted when he would talk about the future?)_

Liam tries hard not to be bitter about it, but it's hard when even the serving staff he passes in the hallways give him not a drop of the respect they reserve for their king or his heir. They know his face, his title, and how he doesn't measure up.

So he goes to Baron George Cooper, speaking quiet words in the shadowy corner of the banquet hall one Midwinter—is there anything he could do? Liam pretends he's not intimidated when the Baron fixes him with an appraising eye before nodding.

He doesn't know if he will regret this until much, much later.


	9. Chapter 9: Plot(ting)

**Exodus Ch. 6**

Raoul sat back in his comfortable office chair and wished, not for the first time, that Kel was still his squire.

"This never ending parade of paper seemed a lot smaller then." He groused, tossing a bound packet of paper into a rejection pile.

It was all wishful thinking. The Knight Commander knew very well that the Lady Knight was still knee deep in mopping up the last of the border raiders that haunted her refugee camp. The Scanran war was over of course, but if anything all the knights of the realm just seemed to be _busier._ Raoul could count on one hand the number of knights who had stayed in the Palace for more than a week before being sent off again to the far-flung corners of the realm.

Unfortunately, Raoul wasn't one of them. No, he had the tedious job of selecting more men to flesh out the ranks of the Own and replace the ones killed at the Scanran front. Whole squads of the Kings Own had been hewn down to the last man- and unlike the army, who took anyone regardless of lineage or status; Raoul had to be picky when it came to new recruits in order to appease the conservatives.

Raoul growled and threw another portfolio into the rejection bin.

The Crown was desperate to keep a sizeable force at its disposal to discourage any land hungry kings from attempting to cross the Tortallan border. He did not have time to dally with the sensibilities of a dozen old men, too stubborn to see what their _tradition_ was costing their country. Raoul sighed, resting his head in his large hands. There weren't that many nobles, even in the legendarily easy-going Own, who could stand for commoners given command over them, which usually resulted in the man in question leaving the company. Perhaps the only exceptions were the ridiculously rich merchant sons, and mages.

Raoul rubbed his eyes. Gods, mages. He had no desire to hire some green as grass mageling right out of University- but where else was he going to find any this late in the year?

"Raoul, are you in here?"

Raoul immediately perked up. That'd be Buri, then, returning from the Riders barracks.

"In here." He called, allowing a boyish smile to cross his face as his wife poked her dark head into his study. She crossed the room with purposeful strides, plopping down in the comfortable chair situated opposite his own. He noted that she seemed far more relaxed than she had just six months ago- the lines in her face seemed to be fading- and he supposed it was because she retired as the commander of the Queens Riders just this past spring. Instead, she ran the training camps and missions, as post which she claimed had all of the fun, but none of the deskwork.

"Ah." Buri nodded to the stacks on his desk. "Evin just got saddled with his own mountain. " The retired commander allowed herself a little chuckle. "That's the real Malorie's Peak right there."

"I believe you may be right." Raoul said ruefully. "I'm sorry, love, I've been reduced to a desk knight."

"Oh damn." Buri said dryly. "I'll have to run off with a real knight now. You know, one that can keep up with me." She grinned, showing all her teeth.

"I can keep up!" Raoul said, slightly indignant and with a look of wounded male pride on his face.

Buri snorted, giving her husband a wry look until he realized how he sounded and laughed a little himself.

"It's all… _this_." Raoul said, gesturing to the veritable forest of paper in front of him. "It's making me cranky."

"Evin is having the same problem." Buri said. She leaned forward to snag one of the folders out of the mage pile. She chuckled, and turned the page back towards her husband. He squinted to the read the small print.

"Eighty-four?" Raoul sputtered. "I have a mage candidate who's eighty-four! He'd shake himself to pieces!"

Buri helpfully tossed the folder into the rapidly growing rejection pile.

"There could not be a worse time to try and recruit." Raoul said with disgust. "The younger sons of the court nobles have no desire to join now, not when the War is over and there's no glory to be won." He rolled his eyes. "That's usually not a problem, as court nobles are seldom useful. What's making this so gods-cursed hard is that fact that we get most of our recruits from the large fief's to the north- which are all rebuilding from when they were torched last year. In some cases, the line of succession is in peril- which certainly isn't encouraging anyone into letting their offspring join the Own!"

"I'm glad I never had to deal with it." Buri said. "On recruitment day the Queen's Riders have lines stretching from the barracks all the way to the city gates- we certainly don't want for soldiers."

"I envy you for that." Raoul said grumpily. "Every time I try and make a motion to open up the Own to anyone with less than a title and a government salary, I get shut down. Jon says he understands, but his hands are tied in this."

"The last few time's Thayet's been by, it's all she's talked about. This time I think she almost took me up on my offer to go throw them off of Balor's Needle." Buri said in commiseration.

They sat and talked until supper, laughing and joking with one another as they both worked through Raoul's impressive paper towers. By the time the bell reminded them that they were starving, there were only two tagged mage dossiers and ten applications for the Own left. On the floor to the left of his desk, Raoul's rejection pile reached his thigh.

Raoul sighed happily and reached for one of the men-at-arms folders.

"This one looks promising." Buri said, thumbing through the small questionnaire within the folder that each mage was required to answer. "Trisana Rainwright- a weather witch, obviously. Hm-" Buri squinted, bringing the paper inches from her nose. "She's strong enough magically, but you might have some problems with her keeping up physically." Buri wrinkled her nose. Each applicant upon submission was required to undergo some tests to determine their suitability. This 'Trisana' had scored abysmally on strength and stamina.

"I'm guessing she doesn't have any combat experience then?" Raoul remarked distractedly, stamping the outside of one of his folders with a red ink stamp that read 'Accepted'. He signed his name in a flourish below the stamp and slid it into a smaller pile to his right.

"She did… decently." Buri sounded surprised. Raoul looked up, gesturing for the folder in question with a wiggle of his fingers.

"Hand to hand and… knives." Raoul's eyebrow came up. "Baron Cooper would be proud."

"She also did a passable job with a quarterstaff." Buri pointed out. "Surprising, for a mage." Indeed it was. It wasn't usually until the Kings Own or the Queen's Riders beat the idea into their skull did mages accept the idea of learning to use actual weapons and keep themselves in shape. In Raoul's considerable experience, there was always a time when magic would fail and a powerless mage would have to choose between running and fighting for their lives, or dying out in the field.

"She's foreign." Raoul said. "The scribe scribbled something here about a peculiar accent, but this Trisana didn't offer up any information on where she's from."

"So?" Buri shrugged.

"Spy, perhaps?" This array of skills _was_ a little too convenient.

"Maybe, maybe not- pretty clumsy for a spy to try and get information this way." Buri pointed out. It seemed strange to her that a spy wouldn't have had the accent trained out of them, as to remain unnoticed and unremarked upon. "They had to know we'd be suspicious. Maybe she just needs a job."

"Maybe." Raoul hummed in agreement. "At any rate, we need people too much to just let her go. I'll tell George to keep an eye on her anyway but for now…" Stamp. Signature.

"Welcome to the Kings Own."


	10. Chapter 10: Explanations in Unison

Briar was aware that Tris was speaking, but he couldn't hear anything past the roaring in his ears.

War magic.

He swallowed, choking a little on the lump in his throat. He remembered very well the war mages of Yanjing—arrogant, bloodthirsty, and completely oblivious to the fact that their very magic stunk of death.

"You can't." He said harshly, interrupting Sandry. "I won't let you." This was the whole reason Tris had gone to Lightsbridge, wasn't it? So she didn't have to kill people for money. So she wouldn't have nightmares every night, of pirates and slaves, and cousins dead for money.

"Please." Sandry pleaded. She never begged. "Why can't you sell charms in the marketplace?"

Daja snorted. She was sitting on the floor of their small room, leaning back against the wall. "We're foreign, that's why. What's worse is we're poor foreigners. None of these people are going to take magic from strangers."

"I'm not planning on marching into the barracks spouting lightning." Tris snapped. "You'd all do well to remember I _can _do more than torch people. A weather-mage is in high demand in a place like Tortall, where one half of the country can be snowed under and the other half is up to their knees in flood."

Briar wished he had something to make this madness end. His practical side whispered, _You know we need the money—rent is like putting a sieve in our pockets. We're scraping by on Daja's paycheck and Sandry's commissions. And you know it's a good idea to have someone on the inside_.

"I won't stand in your way if you tell us the real reason you're doing this." Briar said. His green eyes held Tris's grey. "You hate fighting. Money wasn't reason enough before, and it isn't now. Tell me the truth."

Tris shifted. "We're being watched."

Everyone shifted, and by unspoken agreement, they all fell into each other's minds. _Are you sure? _Sandry asked, her voice echoing with distress; she felt like a snag in a piece of cloth.

_Someone spelled Chime._ Tris's voice crackled back.

They all eyed Chime, who was sitting innocently on the table, her head cocked as if she could understand their silent conversation.

_How did we not notice? _Daja asked. _We're getting too complacent._

_Do you understand now? _Tris's voice had a note of desperation. _I need to find the mage who bugged Chime—and I can't ask any of you to do it, because as far as these Westerners are concerned, your magics don't exist!_

_Hey, it's alright Coppercurls. _Briar wrapped his arm around Tris's shoulders. Daja and Sandry automatically fell into a loose circle around them, lending their strength. Tris took a shaky breath. _It's not like you're really going to be alone._

Their minds sighed and contracted in unison. _We are never alone._


	11. Chapter 11: Sowing Seeds

Briar hadn't felt this frustrated since he'd first started teaching Evvy. It seemed that everywhere he applied, he'd get a once over coupled with a disdainful sniff at the flowers tattooed on his hands and then a door shut in his face.

"We don't need any of the Rogue's kind here! This is a respectable establishment!" One old biddy snapped before shooing him out the door of her apothecary with her broom.

"Who the hell is this Rogue?" Briar complained one night at supper. It was a delicious, if thin, stew that didn't quite sooth his battered pride or his growling belly. "I've been kicked out of every halfway decent apothecary or herbalist with the name on their lips—it's enough to get my feelings tweaked. Usually when a lady calls me a rogue it's for-"

"Children." Daja said, cutting her eyes to Glaki, whom Briar saw was very interested in the conversation.

"-other things." He finished lamely.

"I told you not to get those tattoos." Sandry sing-songed from the armchair in the corner where she was happily embroidering a veil for her next commission.

Briar made a rude hand gesture, and yelped when Daja rapped his knuckles hard with a spoon. "What part of children don't you understand?" She asked sternly, before turning to Glaki. "I'd better not see or hear of you repeating Briar here. The last thing anyone wants is a visit from the school teacher about your behavior at school."

"Yes Daja." Glaki said meekly, but giggled when Briar winked at her behind the smith's back.

"I saw that." Tris said airily as she entered their small apartment.

"Tris!" Glaki cried, leaping up and hugging her around the middle tightly. "I missed you!"

"I haven't even left yet." Tris said, amused. She rested her hand on Glaki's dark head and looped her arm around Glaki's shoulders in a loose, awkward hug.

"I know that." Glaki said, her cheeks pinking. "But I'm really going to miss you when you leave tomorrow."

And she would. She really would. Glaki was terrified at the thought of Tris leaving to go to work and never coming back again—just like the hazy memories of her real mother and aunt back in Tharios. She wouldn't be alone (she'd had Kethlun back then, too) but it wouldn't be the same without Tris around. Who would meditate early in the morning with her before she had to go off to school? Who would help her with her arithmetic when the homework questions the teacher set aside were completely foreign to her? Who would- who would-

"It'll be alright." Tris whispered in her ear, hugging her a little closer. Glaki could feel the red-heads naturally stiff posture relaxing just a little to curl around her smaller frame. "You can talk to me everyday, remember? All you have to do is ask Briar, Daja, or Sandry and you know they'll help you."

"Okay." Glaki murmured, breaking away from Tris's hug and going back to the table. She wiped her eyes quickly, and hope Tris didn't see them. She didn't like crying in front of Tris, who _never_ cried and had no patience for those who did.

"You were saying something about a Rogue?" Sandry asked, breaking the growing silence.

Briar immediately scowled. "Whoever he is, he's making it very difficult to get a job. The only place I have left is the Lower City and I don't particularly want to work down there. It reminds me too much of the Mire, you know?" He unconsciously rubbed the double X's on the webs on his thumbs, and grimaced when he looked down and noticed himself doing it.

"Any idea who he, or she, is?"

"Or what?"

Briar shrugged. "The way the people talk about him, I'd say he's a mob type of some sort. Like the Thief Lord back in Hatar. He's got a title an' everything."

"I know we don't want to get too involved here, but do you think…" Sandry hesitated, as if trying to find the most tactful way of putting it. "…having an ear on the ground, so to speak, would be such a bad idea?"

"Are you suggested I go back to my criminal ways, Lady fa Toren?" Briar laughed.

Sandry shrugged, looking sheepish.

"No, it's a good idea." Daja said. She carefully set down her spoon and sat back in her wooden chair. "Right now, we're pretty comfortably situated. I have my work at the blacksmith, which often does commissions for the palace armory and gives me access to the palace gossip. Sandry has a way to hear what the nobles are saying—we all know how much noble ladies like to talk about new arrivals at court to anyone they can condescend to— and Tris is with the Kings Own, gallivanting all over the land, she might hear something before any of us."

"Your point?" Briar said.

"We don't have anyone in the Lower City."

"Well, I don't particularly want to be stabbed in some alleyway or taken by the City Watch neither." Briar retorted. "I guarantee they'll ask lots of uncomfortable questions if I'm arrested. Probably with branding irons."

"Really?" Glaki asked, her eyes huge. "That wouldn't really happen to you, would it?" she turned to look at Tris. "I don't want Briar to go to jail!"

"None of us do, dear." Sandry said, her eyes softening at Glaki's distraught expression.

"Speak for yourself." Daja snorted. She got up and began to stack the dishes in the sink and Tris quickly got up to assist in the drying.

"Ha ha." Briar snarked back. "What if I don't want to be someones lackey, bowin' and scraping to feed an inflated ego? Might as well become the Rogue myself."

"You do that." Tris said absently, peering over her spectacles at her foster-brother.

"I could, you know."

"Of that I have no doubt."


	12. Chapter 12: Reforged

Another Daja chapter. Hope you all enjoy. I'm gettin more into the Protector of the Small crowd here. Please R and R, thank you!

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><p>"I'm doomed, Merric." Neal moaned into his cup.<p>

The red haired knight patted his friend sympathetically on the back, simultaneously signaling the barmaid for another round. He had a feeling he would need it. "Are you sure you can't fix it?"

Neal's head hit the rough wooden table with a thunk that echoed across the subdued pub. It was a little grimy for Merric's tastes, but Neal had asked to meet him in this lower city pub in a near panic. The broken sword wrapped in cloth that Neal had been dramatically clutching for the last half hour explained the hysteria.

"I've been to every smithy in Corus, and not one can repair it!" Neal sat up to take a deep draft of his cheap beer. He coughed a little. "Ugh, what is this swill?"

"You chose this place." Merric reminded him, rolling his eyes.

"I didn't want to risk anyone overhearing me." Neal said.

"You're not planning to commit treason." Merric said patiently. "And what the hell did you do to irreparably break a sword from Raven Armory?" His voice took on a pained note; the swordsman in him was cringing at the thought of such a blade being ruined. He reached over and drew the cloth away from the sword and- "What in the Kings name did you _do_?" He hissed.

The sword wasn't broken, exactly. It was still in one piece, the hilt to about a foot up the blade untouched and pristine. However, about halfway up the blade, there was a five inch section that had been completely melted. It was as if someone with molten hot hands had superheated the sword and then _twisted_, giving the formerly straight sword a crooked lilt.

"Gods." Merric breathed. "Kel is going to kill you."

Neal whimpered. "I didn't mean to." he said. "I was just- there was this spell in one of Yaolin Goalsdottir's spell books and it- it went wrong-"

"Did you go to the Raven smithy?"

"First place I went to." the Queenscove muttered. He took another long draft of ale. "I've contaminated it with my power, they said. Numair offered to help, but he said he'd more than likely blow it up if he tried."

"Does Kel not know?"

"No. She's on a training trip with the Own and the pages as a favor to Raoul. I told her I'd get sharpened and refinished for her birthday- you know how she hates surprises."

"You lied to her?" Merric asked Neal incredulously. One, it was almost impossible to lie to Kel- she could read most people like open books and two, Neal was a spectacularly bad liar.

"No- I broke it _after._"

Merric settled back with a sighed, giving his companion a gimlet eye. "You _are _doomed."

The barmaid took this _moment_ to come to their table with another tankard of ale for the duo, depositing it in front of an already tipsy Neal.

"Thank ye, dearie." the girl winked, tucking the copper Merric handed her into her bodice before sashaying away. Merric grinned. Perhaps this 'establishment' had some merits after all. Huh. He wouldn't have guessed Neal would be the type to frequent bars with busty barmaids... though he had spent his squire years under Alanna the Lioness, who had a bit of a reputation for doing whatever the hell she wanted, including frequenting the seedy underbelly of the capital. She had married the Rogue of Corus after all-

"Can we please concentrate?" Neal asked, socking his fellow knight on the arm with drunken coordination.

"Yes, of course." Merric coughed, straightening. But he couldn't help his eye wandering across the floor again. This time his eyes caught on the dark skin of a woman in the opposite corner. She was exotic-looking- her skin was ebony to the bronze-skinned Copper Islanders and olive toned Karthakis.

"Merric!" Neal said, exasperated. "Can't you stop staring at women for five seconds and _help_ me?"

"How?!" Merric turned back to Neal. "I'm no smith, man. Buck up and prepare yourself for a long day of jousting practice and Kel's blasted Yamani face. You know the Lioness gave her that blade; she'll be disappointed in you for a few weeks, and then she'll forgive you."_  
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"That's the worst part." Neal whimpered. "Kel won't be angry- she'll give me that look that, I swear to the Gods, she stole from my mother. And on top of that, Yuki probably won't speak to me for a while and I know for a fact that Alanna will take me out to the training courtyard and beat me black and blue for being so stupid." He buried his face in his hands. "As a friend, I'm asking you to kill me-"

"Excuse me?"

Merric started and looked up. Towering over his seated form, the tall dark woman stood at their table. She was broad shouldered, with heavily muscled forearms visible disappearing into her rolled up tunic sleeves. Her hair was swept back into a multitude of small braids and gathered at the back of her head witha few hanging down to frame her face.

Terrible flirt that he was, Merric immediately turned on the charm. "How can I help you?"

The woman didn't even look in his direction. Instead, her entire focus was on the naked sword on the table. "May I?" She asked, and without waiting for an answer she lifted it off the velvet cloth and cradled it in her hands.

"Hey-" Neal lurched forward drunkenly. "Please, be careful-"

"I could fix this." The woman said slowly, weighing the expertly hammered steel in her large calloused hands.

"Wha-?" Neal stopped. He took in her patched clothing and rought, worn hands. She looked more like a day laborer than a smith. Especially not the kind of smith that could pull of a job that the finest mages and craftsmen in the country had deemed unsalvageable. The woman set the sword gently down on the table, as if reassuring the nobleman that she wasn't going to run off with it.

"I didn't always live in Corus." she said as if reading Neal's mind and shrugged. "There's not many places for... me."

Ah. Neal recognized that shrug. It usually occurred when Kel was dealing with ignorant people she couldn't change. It was a simple leap to deduce that perhaps smith guilds (Conservatives, the lot of them) would be hesitant to take on a strange foreign woman in what was primarily a mans profession, no matter her skill.

"Okay." Neal slurred. "Take it. Fix it. _Please_." He shoved the sword towards the woman, practically off the table.

"Wait, wait- Neal. You're drunk. Stop." Merric ignored Neal's incredulous look. "Listen, if you can fix this sword we'll pay you. A lot. Hell, if you can reforge that monstrosity back into a sword befitting the name Raven Armory, I'll get you a job there myself. _If _you can fix it, which I doubt."

The woman merely nodded, looking thoughtful.

"But I won't have you running off with that sword."

This raised an eyebrow. "I need my forge."

"No." Merric shook his head. "You need _a _forge. You do this at the palace."

The smith stilled. "The palace?" Her eyes flicked up and down the two, skeptical. They certainly didn't look like nobles, with none of the fop and frillery that usually made the type stick out in a dump like this.

"We're knights." Merric offered. He should of expected this, really.

"Noblemen." the woman said flatly. "What are lords like you doing in a place like this?"

"Commiserating!" Neal sighed, setting his empty tankard down. His pathetic manner was so disarming, that the smith relaxed a fraction.

"No offense, my lords." Her voice wasn't quite hostile, but it wasn't as warm as it was before. "But I'd need to know I'd be paid for my work."

Merric nodded. "Fair enough." He plucked a gold noble from the hidden pocket in his moneybelt. "Consider this a down payment, to insure honesty by both parties."

The woman cocked her head, consider him. There was a long stretch of silence as the smith measured what he said carefully. Finally, she said "When do you need it done."

Both Merric and the woman's eyes swiveled to pin Neal to his seat. "Er- a fortnight?"

Slipping her hands in her pockets, the woman nodded. "It will take longer at the palace, but it can be done. The magic steeping in the metal- it is deep within the core of the sword. It will take some time to untangle the two."

"But you can do it?" Neal asked.

"Yes." She smiled, and her teeth were bright against the gloom of the bar and the dark of her lips. "I suppose you want me to start as soon as possible?" At Neal's thankful smile, she nodded. "I will come to the palace in the evening."

"Evening?" Merric couldn't help blurting.

"I do have a job." the woman said, an eyebrow raised. She bowed slightly. "I will see you tomorrow...?"

"Ah, Merric of Hollyrose." Merric stood and shook that woman's hand. He had a feeling that if he tried to kiss the back of her hand, she'd simply laugh at him. "And this drunken idiot is Nealan of Queenscove."

"Ha." Neal said sourly, still seated.

"I am Daja Kisubo." The smith said. "Pleasure doing business with you."


End file.
